


The Long Night

by celluloidbroomcloset



Category: The Avengers (TV)
Genre: Aftermath of Torture, Angst, F/M, Hurt/Comfort, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-06-19
Updated: 2015-06-19
Packaged: 2018-04-05 04:04:14
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,359
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4165053
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/celluloidbroomcloset/pseuds/celluloidbroomcloset
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After the episode Don't Look Behind You, Steed takes Cathy home and tries to help her through the trauma.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Long Night

Cathy Gale felt numb. Indistinct. Her body ached, everything from the tips of her toes to the roots of her hair. She hadn’t been in a fight – she knew well enough how to deal with that kind of pain. This was a different kind of ache; a fatigue of body and mind, yet she knew she wouldn’t sleep. She never wanted to sleep again.

 

It was past midnight before they started from Sir Cavalier’s home. They stopped at a village inn to knock up the landlord so that Steed could telephone the Ministry to have the place cleaned of all traces of Martin Goodman. Cathy remained in the car, staring at the open sky. The blanket of stars looked so serene, yet she could find no peace in them, only a silent mockery of her terror. When Steed finished his call, he suggested that they get rooms there for the night, but Cathy couldn’t stand the thought of sleeping in a strange place. So off they went at what must have been one in the morning, for the long drive back home. Steed put up the cloth roof his new vintage Bentley and cranked the heat as far as it would go, but by the time they were entering the City of London, Cathy was shivering all over. She’d never been so cold.

 

As they drove, Steed talked, using that flippant, disarming tone that Cathy knew, in the part of her brain that still functioned, should be driving her crazy. She heard Goodman’s name once or twice, and had a vague awareness that he was asking her questions. When she gave him no response, he began to talk about other things. Rambled about polo and tennis and golf, wines and spirits, elucidated every feature of the Bentley. He kept talking until he was hoarse and even after that, clearing his throat. He didn’t stop until he pulled into the parking space in front of her building, and then he was only silent long enough to climb out of the car.

 

Steed didn’t even ask if he could come in; he was just there, beside her in the elevator, down the corridor, at her front door. He did not touch her, but followed her close enough that she could feel the heat from his body.

 

Cathy stopped at the entryway. For one moment, she thought she had come into the wrong flat, then she saw that ridiculous piece of 16th Century armor, still on the table where she’d left it, Cathy suddenly hated that piece of armor. She never wanted to see it again. Steed had tried it on…yesterday? Yes, now it was yesterday. It was still dark out, but she could feel the early morning like it was a breathing thing.

 

A hand on her elbow made her jump out of the way, her arms raised in a fighting posture as she turned.

 

Steed held up his hands. “Would you like a cup of tea?”

 

Cathy put her palm to her brow. It came away wet and clammy. She didn’t think she responded to his question, but Steed was stepping past her into the flat.

 

It was just as well. She only managed to get to her couch before her legs began to feel like jelly and she sank onto cushions. How could one be so tense and so weak at the same time? She tried to focus on something, anything, and settled on the pile of the carpet. A weird idea came to her mind that she needed to vacuum. She was so cold – so very cold. She was shaking. A memory surfaced in her mind, that last logical piece of her. Shock. She was in shock.

 

The next thing Cathy was aware of was Steed coming back into the room. He draped a blanket about her shoulders and pressed something into her hand. She looked down. It looked like whisky and it burned as it went down her throat.

 

The sofa shifted when Steed sat down beside her, as close as he could be without touching her. With an effort she turned her head and met his calm grey eyes. It occurred to her that she was afraid of what she might see there – commiseration or, worse, pity. She refused to be pitied by him. He was so expressive; too expressive for an agent, she thought. He could lie with his mouth but not his eyes. He always had to believe his own lies, that’s what he once told her, otherwise it showed. And his eyes now had no pity in them. Concern, fear, sympathy, but not pity.

 

“Drink that up,” he said, tapping the glass with his forefinger. “The tea’ll be ready soon. Any warmer?”

 

Her trembling hadn’t subsided, but as she drank the rest of the whisky, she began to feel a bit more herself, the old, rational Dr. Catherine Gale, who never let anything frighten her. She ran the whole evening over in her mind. It was all absurd, of course. Flashing lights and a house wired for sound; a stolen key, a locked door. Ridiculous, haunted house kind of thing, the sort to frighten small children. But it had frightened her. When she realized who was behind it, it scared her even more. She’d never been quite proud of what she did to Goodman, but she wasn’t sorry for it either. It was entirely justified. She had not known, not really, how insane he’d become. His face as he approached her that last time, his big, hard hands raised, ready to strike…

 

The whistle of the kettle made her jump right out of her skin, splashing the last of the whisky onto the carpet. Steed got off the sofa and vanished into the kitchen. She heard him clanking around, tiny, comforting noises, that meant a reality she knew and understood. John Steed was a very different person from Martin Goodman, even if they were in the same general line of work.

 

Steed came back carrying a tray – tea, milk, sugar, the biscuit tin. For all his volubility earlier, he’d become oddly silent now. She watched him as he set the tray down and measured out milk into the cups.

 

The warmth of the tea did some good. Cathy felt a little less numb now. She looked down at Steed, sitting in front of her. He must be tired too – bleary eyes, slightly drawn face. He’d driven all night. He’d…come to save her.

 

“Thank you, Steed,” she said. Her voice sounded foreign to her own ears. She grasped the cup a bit tighter, the warmth of it tingling her skin.

 

Steed smiled at her.

 

“Drink it all up,” he replied “I had an auntie used to believe tea cured all ailments. I once sprained my foot falling from a horse and the old dear came rushing at me with a pot of darjeeling.”

 

Cathy laughed. Steed and his aunties – she wondered how many of them were real. He’d talked about them so often and gave them such bizarre characteristics she couldn’t quite believe they existed.

 

It took her a moment to realize that she hadn’t stopped laughing. Then she couldn’t stop. The laughter came from the pit of her stomach and it welled up and spilled over and she couldn’t stop it. Endless, painful laughter that turned to sobs – wracking sobs, sobs without tears. She couldn’t breathe. She tried, but it was though her mouth couldn’t open wide enough or her lungs fill deep enough. Her chest hurt. She was drowning, she couldn’t get air. The clatter of a cup, far removed from her, as it fell to the floor. The sofa shifted with a new weight and an arm came around her, a warm presence beside her. Something real, alive, with a beating heart. She grabbed his lapel and held on to him.

 

Cathy didn’t know how long they sat there. She knew that she didn’t cry because she couldn’t. Eventually, she began to be aware of things again: his lapel crumpled in her hands, his heart beating against her ear; his voice, gentle where it was usually grating, serious where it was usually flip, reassuring her. A hand held her head, stroking her hair the way her father did when she was a child and woke with nightmares. “My brave little Cathy,” he used to say. “Just a dream, my brave little Cathy, and dreams can’t hurt you.”

 

“You’re all right,” said a very different voice. “You’re all right.”

 

Shame welled inside of her, though she could not have told its source. If only she could cry, perhaps that would help, but it had been years since she last cried. She couldn’t allow herself to, not Catherine Gale, and not in front of him.

 

“I’m sorry,” she managed to say.

 

“It’s been a long night,” said Steed.

 

“Yes,” Cathy released his lapel and drew away. “I ache all over.”

 

“He didn’t hurt you?”

 

“No.”

 

“Tension. Mental torture can be just as rough on the body as physical.”

 

“He was very clever, wasn’t he?”

“Not clever enough.” He relaxed his grip on her shoulder. “Listen, why don’t you get changed, put on something comfortable, and I’ll make us something to eat? Even if you’re not hungry, I’ve been eyeing those cups and saucers with an idea to breaking my teeth on them.”

 

Cathy laughed a proper laugh this time and nodded. Not for the first time that night, she was grateful to him.

 

Ten minutes later, Cathy emerged from her room in her most comfortable pajamas and dressing gown. She found the table laid with bread and salad and there was a delicious scent that circled around the flat in plumes of steam. Steed came out of the kitchen bearing a bottle of wine in his hand and a towel tucked into his belt. He smiled at her.

 

“Charming! I don’t think I’ve ever seen you in pajamas.”

 

“Disappointed?”

 

“Not at all, I think they rather suit you. Come and sit down. Feeling any better?”

 

Cathy nodded as she took a seat at the dining table. “A little shaken still.”

 

“Well, the soup will be done shortly and then you can have a lie down.”

 

He poured her a glass of wine and sat down himself.

 

“Ministry called,” he said, regarding her face carefully.

 

Cathy lowered her glass. “What did they say?”

 

“It’s all cleared up. Sir Cavalier shall be none the wiser when he gets home.”

 

“Good. Thank you.” She paused. “They’ll want to talk to me, won’t they?”

 

“Eventually. I’ll smoothe it over with them. You needn’t speak until you’re ready to. Here, I’ll get that soup.”

 

She watched him go. He made a good nursemaid – a sort of maternal aura hung about him in his concern that made her smile. When he came back with the soup, she realized how hungry she actually was.

 

They ate, and as they ate, they talked. Cathy recounted at least a portion of what had happened at the house, in as basic language as she could. That helped too, turning the night into a report removed from her. For once she was glad of Steed’s flippant little asides and stupid jokes – they made it all seem much less dire. She supposed that was part of how he survived.

 

“How do you do it, Steed?” she asked, pushing away her finished bowl of soup.

 

He sniffed at the wine. “Excellent vintage – you’re learning, my dear. Do what?”

 

“I’ve never been tortured, but I don’t see how you can stand it without some lasting damage.”

 

“It’s a matter of giving in, going mad, or…not. I always chose not.”

 

“It’s not that easy.”

 

“No. But it’s amazing what the mind and body are capable of when we’re choosing between life and death.”

 

She wrapped one arm about her leg and rested her chin on her knee. “I’d never felt that alone before.”

 

“That’s the worst of it: the loneliness. It makes you almost grateful when the tension finally breaks and the interrogator comes into the room. At least then you know where you stand.”

 

She looked up into his face. The smoky grey eyes were suddenly very far way. She wondered how many times Steed had been imprisoned and tortured. Alone, afraid, uncertain of rescue until it happened. Then what? Unsympathetic superiors, debriefing, his fellow agents looking at him, wondering if he’d given in. No one to talk to. All of those women she knew he flirted with, took home, and made love to: he had to lie to them about who he was and what he did; he didn’t have a choice. He had no one to confide in.

 

That wasn’t true, though. For the time being, they had each other.

 

“Goodman hated me,” said Cathy. “It’s funny how quickly love can turn to hate. I betrayed him – that’s all he saw.”

 

“He was plenty mad long before you came along,” said Steed. “I didn’t see it then, but I do now.” 

 

“I don’t understand that kind of hate, Steed. If a man commits a crime to feed his family, or even a crime to line his own pockets, I can understand that. Greed and patriotism – those are rational motives, with some purpose behind them. But this…” She shivered as Goodman’s face came back to her, and the shredded pieces of her own visage. “I can’t understand it.”

 

“Better not to try.”

 

“Thank you for coming back for me,” she said.

 

A quick grin passed over his face. “That’s me: your knight in shining armor.”

 

A silence, new and palpable, made Cathy squirm. There was much that she wanted to say, and no words to say it in. She knew she was capable of warmth, sentiment, emotion – but not with Steed. With Steed it was too dangerous, too prone to coming back to bite her. He’d used her humanitarian feelings enough times against her; she couldn’t bear to give him more ammunition. 

 

Steed seemed to sense the new tension. He cleared his throat. “I’ll do the washing up.”

 

Cathy sat down on the sofa again and listened to her partner moving around in the kitchen. A crash and an oddly out of place expletive made her laugh.

 

“Are you all right?”

 

“Perfectly. I hope you weren’t overly fond of that salad bowl.”

 

He was like a herd of rampaging rhinos sometimes – amazing that he ever managed to do his job properly. With a sigh, she poured herself another glass from the brandy decanter.

 

“Well, I haven’t done too much damage to your cutlery,” said Steed. He took up the decanter and a glass and sat down opposite her. “Feeling better?”

 

“Much. You must be tired.”

 

“A bit. I’m used to it.” He paused, swirling the brandy.

 

Cathy stretched her aching limbs and winced at the pain that shot through them.

 

“Here,” said Steed, tapping her shoulder. “Sit on the floor.”

 

Cathy didn’t have the wherewithal to argue. She did as she was told. The press of Steed’s fingers into her neck surprised her.

 

“Relax,” he said. “I’m very good at this.”

 

“That’s what I’m concerned about.”

 

But he was not exaggerating. Within a few seconds, the knots in Cathy’s neck and shoulders began to relax under Steed’s hands. Little undiscovered aches were found, kneaded, and dispelled by the firm strength of his fingers. She relaxed back against his legs and let the tension flood out of her, and with it the remainders of fear and loneliness that had characterized the long night. His hands worked over her shoulders and arms and down her back so that she leaned forward to give him better access. It didn’t matter that he might tease her about this later – she could take it.

 

He completed a round of her back and moved back up to her neck, gently pushing on the pressure points and sending tingles down her spine. His fingers probed her neck and into her hair. Nails scraped against her scalp. He must have felt her stiffen at the intimate touch, for he stopped moving but didn’t withdraw his hands. Cathy closed her eyes and relaxed. She wondered if she could ask him to stay without provoking some lascivious comment. She had no interest in sex with him, but having him there made her feel better.

 

Steed finished the massage and gently tapped her shoulders. Cathy sat up. Her muscles were jelly, but in the best possible way. She smiled over her shoulder at him.

 

“Thank you, Steed.”

 

“Please, no more thank yous. We must not destroy our mutually beneficial antagonism.”

 

Cathy smiled and rose. “If it’s all right with you, I’m going to bed. Lock the door on your way out, will you?”

 

The bed was soft and familiar and Cathy was asleep before her head touched the downy pillow. For some time, she slept a deep, fatigued sleep. Then, without warning, as though her subconscious had rested enough, she began to dream. It was almost a repeat of the entire evening – the slow building of terror and tension, the realization of who it was that was doing this, and why. But there was no relief. No Steed appeared from behind a door, no mask to frighten Goodman, no one, nothing, just her alone, waiting for Goodman to come back, knowing she could not escape, and that she was finally, irrevocably, alone.

 

Cathy awoke shouting. She was bathed in a cold sweat. The room was dark. It was night again – but which night? She looked around, confused, trying to discern something in the darkness. Then the door of her bedroom flew back on its hinges and she braced herself to attack him, Goodman, coming after her.

 

“Mrs. Gale?” Steed’s hoarse, terrified voice.

 

Cathy let out a long breath as her memory returned. “I’m here, Steed. I’m all right.”

 

She turned on the bedside lamp. In the painful flash of light, she saw him there in his shirt sleeves, looking like the ragged end of nowhere. His drawn face for an instant showed all the anxiety his voice had betrayed.

 

“What are you still doing here?” she asked, a bit more severely than she intended.

 

Steed scrubbed at his face. “I, uh, dropped off on your sofa, I’m afraid. I wanted to be sure you were all right.”

 

“I’m not a child, Steed.”

 

“Everyone needs help sometimes, Mrs. Gale.”

 

Steed rubbed the back of his neck, twisting his head about.

 

“Uncomfortable?” she asked.

 

“Your sofa’s not exactly a bed at the Ritz.”

 

“You could have gone home.”

 

“I didn’t want to.” His voice was sharp. “But I’ll go now, if you prefer.”

 

Cathy looked at him. He did look exhausted. He should be at home, in his own bed. But she was glad he had stayed.

 

“All right,” she said, and patted the bed beside her.

 

Steed looked a little surprised, but he did not argue. He crawled in beside her, lying atop the duvet, and pulled the wool blanket she used as a coverlet over his body.

 

“Much more comfortable,” he said as Cathy switched off the light.

 

“If you try anything, I’ll break your arm.”

 

“Perish the thought, Mrs. Gale. You forget I’m a gentleman.”

 

“Sometimes you forget too.”

 

She rolled over and felt the bed shift as he readjusted himself. It had been quite awhile since she slept in the same bed with another person. The weight and warmth on his side was comfortable. She peered into the darkness.

 

“Steed?”

 

“Hm?”

 

“Can I ask you a question?”

 

“I don’t snore, if that’s what you’re worried about.”

 

She stifled a laugh. “No.”

 

“What then?”

 

“Why do you do this job?”

 

There was a pause, long enough that she thought he’d fallen asleep.

 

“Because if I didn’t, someone else would, and they might make a fine hash of things.”

 

“I’m serious.”

 

“So am I.” He paused again. “I do it because no human life is insignificant.”

 

Cathy rolled over. She could just see his face in the vague light coming from the streetlamps outside. He looked up at the ceiling with his arms folded over his chest.

 

“Good night, Steed.”

 

“Good night, Mrs. Gale.”


End file.
